"Abbott is out in his driveway washing his daughter's highchair with a hose, a sponge, and a soapy bucket. Neighbors walk by and say boy do they remember those days. They say he can wash their cars when he's done. They say he should start a small business. The neighbors stop with their leashed dogs and tell stories of rotting fruit and yogurt beneath the seat cushions, the mysterious stenches, the revolting discoveries. Oh they don't miss that. Abbott says these highchairs really do get disgusting. The neighbors say they literally gagged. You just don't understand it, they say, until you have children. I know, says Abbott, it's bad. One woman whose name Abbott thinks is Laura says her husband is taking it easy for a couple days after the vasectomy. Abbott changes the setting on his new hose attachment from SHOWER to JET, and he blasts the highchair so hard it rocks on two plastic wheels. Desiccated raisins fly like shrapnel."
from Abbott Awaits : a novel / by Chris Bachelder
Baton Rouge : Louisiana State University Press, 2011